


Something Stupid This Way Comes

by Miri1984



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18103001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Let's all collectively agree that this plan is royally dumb, shall we? Spoilers for MAG 130





	1. Chapter 1

_The siren call of the flesh is just a metaphor, Jon thinks, in the depths of his fear, and a stupid one for him to have focused on, of course. Flesh has never interested him, not his own and not other people’s. He’d have been better off cutting out an eye or something, probably, although perhaps he’d grow new ones to replace it. He could well have extras already, he thinks, finding room in the thudding terror of the choke to frighten himself in new and exciting ways._

_He needs to find Daisy. He needs to make a connection to his fucking finger, up there somewhere on his desk. His finger. God Jon, you fucking idiot. The spider didn’t want to help him, the spider never wanted to help him, the spider had been inches from eating him when he was eight, why on earth would it leave him hints on how to save Daisy?_

_The pain in his hand. He needs to focus on the pain, make himself remember where he is._

_But it is so dark, and he is far too adrift._

 

Martin shouldn’t go into the archives. He shouldn’t be here, not ever. But somehow he is. Somehow his feet have pulled him to where he’s absolutely not allowed to go.

He almost panics, when he realises but it’s okay. It’s late enough that he shouldn’t run into anyone on his way back out. He knows Basira is gone and Melanie is still taking sleeping pills, and Jon…

Jon doesn’t stay as late as he used to, when he first started, drowning in the details of a job he wasn’t qualified for. Martin remembers those first few weeks and couldn’t help drawing parallels with his own beginnings at the Institute. He’d been desperately sympathetic, at first, then… well. Just desperate he supposed. So Jon should be at home, he figures, sleeping, or trying to. Did he even need sleep any longer?

Martin shudders. This much speculation is also strictly against Peter’s wishes. Of course. He hasn’t turned around to go back out. He needs to leave but the look on Jon’s face has been eating at him for weeks, now. “What happened Martin?” the quiet, sad, acceptance that whatever they are now is so far from what they were.

Maybe he just needs to be here to say goodbye.

He knocks on the doorframe and waits, heart in his mouth, desperately hoping that Jon doesn’t respond, desperately hoping that he does. When he’s greeted with silence he doesn’t know if the sigh he lets out is one of relief.

The first thing he notices is the coffin. His brain scrambles for an explanation. A delivery? It’s sufficiently bloody terrifying, especially since it’s open and Martin can clearly see it’s not full of dead body or even padded like the one his mother had lain in. No. The lid is open and it’s hungry for something. Martin steps back in alarm, eyes scanning the rest of the office, looking for some other clue as to why Jon would have something like that in here. He’s afraid, of course, always afraid, but the fear, like so many other things these days, is distant and hard to hold onto.

That’s when he notices the blood.

It’s not the first time he’s seen blood here, oh god no it isn’t, but it’s the first time he’s instinctively known whose blood it is. There’s something that looks like a paint scraper, dropped on the floor near Jon’s desk, a sharp enough edge, he supposes, to be used to do whatever has left red splashed and dripping all over the desk’s corner. There’s nothing else on the desk aside from… Aside from…

He has to gingerly pull the note out from underneath the… the thing. There’s no way he’s going to touch it. He recognises Jon’s handwriting, of course he does, he’d gotten enough reports back from him covered in hasty red scrawls, but it’s more jagged and forced than he remembers.

It’s not addressed to him, but he reads it anyway.

_Basira. I’ve gone in to get Daisy. Whatever you do, please don’t lose my finger. It’s important if I’m going to find my way back._

Martin can almost hear Tim’s voice in his head. _He did something stupid, didn’t he?_

“Yes,” Martin says softly. “Yes, Tim he did.” He doesn’t touch the finger. He pulls a chair around to face the coffin, and then settles in to wait.

It’s lonely enough in here, without Jon, that even Peter couldn’t fault him for staying.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Elias sits in his cell. It’s harder, away from the Archives, to focus his gaze, but Jon’s presence is always clear to him.  _

_ He watches, as Jon mutilates himself, the smallest sliver of him that remains human wincing at the dull thunk of the scraper against the table, and Jon’s surprised grunt makes him chuckle. Jon always believes that he can deal with the pain, but he is always affronted by its intensity. His capacity for surprise is one of the things Elias loves about him, although he can acknowledge that it is, for Jon, wearing thin. _

_ Elias does relish the sensation, though, that neat separation, that burning line of fire. He runs a long finger over his own, unblemished hand and smiles.  _

_ What is one more scar, indeed? _

 

Melanie feels different, now. She doesn’t want to admit it’s because of what Jon and Basira did. There is a hard knot of anger in her middle that hasn’t shifted, despite what Basira told her about what the bullet was doing. No, that anger was hers, it started before she even went to India.  _ That’s why they shot you,  _ her own voice whispers to her, treacherous.  _ They recognised one of their own. _

_ Don’t you want to go back? _

She buries herself in work. Basira is gone and Jon is… Jon, but she is still drawing a paycheck and it’s not like there’s anything else to do, is there? She makes phone calls, she asks for follow up interviews. She does the job. 

She does not go near Jon’s office, and she is grateful he has learned his lesson and does not come anywhere close to her, so when the email from Peter comes asking her to check on Jon she hesitates, cold fear running down her spine. 

_ Melanie, _

_ I do hope I have this address right. It seems Martin is neglecting his duties and I believe he may be doing something foolish. Could you be a dear and go down to Jon’s office and check on him for me? I’m sure it’s nothing, but there’s no harm in being sure, is there? _

_ And if you happen to see Martin on the way do let him know I’d like to see him. Now.  _

_ Peter. _

She hasn’t seen Martin in months. A week ago she wouldn’t have realised that. A week ago she wouldn’t have even bothered to read her emails. 

So maybe she  _ has _ changed. Maybe what Jon did was a favour and not a mutilation. Maybe she is getting better, or whatever. Doesn't mean she has to be grateful to him. But she isn’t going to risk not doing something Peter Lukas specifically asked her to do, she doesn’t want to be whooshed into non-existence or whatever it is that Lukas did to the other researchers. God. 

Exchange one spooky maniac for another why don’t they. 

She makes her way to Jon’s office, through the empty corridors. She doesn’t want to admit that she can feel the absence of Basira so keenly. She felt safe with Basira. She’d understood Daisy. Sharing this space with no one but Jon is much, much, worse than being alone.

The door to the office is closed. She raps on it impatiently but doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before pushing it open.

“Jesus,” she says, taking in the bloody table, the chair, the coffin, the haggard and bent figure of Martin sitting in a chair and just… looking at it. Looking at it in a way that makes it very fucking obvious where Jon is right now.

Martin looks up, startled at her voice, then scrambles backwards out of the chair. “Oh no,” he says. “Melanie what…?”

_ “What  _ did he  _ do?” _

“He’s gone to get Daisy,” Martin says, and he’s  _ terrified  _ of her, backing up and away from her as though she’s going to attack him. “He’s… he did... “ Martin waves at the bloody table and it’s only then that she sees the finger. 

“Oh… uugh, oh god.” She grimaces, then makes a decision, waving a hand. “I’m not even going to  _ try  _ to understand what the bloody hell he’s doing."

"He's trying to _help..."_

"No," Melanie says. "Don't even start, Martin. You haven't even been here. You don't know..."

Martin holds up a hand. "Don't!" he says. "Don't... don't tell me..."

She sucks in a breath. "Fine," she says. "Martin, Peter emailed me. Wanted me to…”  _ find you.  _ She shrugs. “So I guess I’ve done what he wanted, which means I don’t get disappeared.”

“Oh no,” Martin says again, and he scrubs at his face with both hands. 

“Whatever  _ this  _ is?” Melanie continues. “You…" she waves a hand, utterly and completely frustrated with everything. "You can deal with it yourself.” She starts to back out of the room and Martin takes a step forward, as though he’s going to ask her to stay, then stops, face twisted in regret. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice choked. “You better go.” 

“Don’t worry,” Melanie says. “I am.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ He cannot see. He cannot hear. The dirt and mud crush him from all sides and the pain is intense, but not being able to see is somehow worse. It is the antithesis of what he is. He needs to know, and the only way to know is to observe. There is nothing here to observe, nothing but the dirt and the mud and the crushing, bruising weight.  _

_ There is something he is supposed to remember. Someone he is supposed to remember. He’s here to find someone. He knows she is here, he  _ KNOWS.  _ That thread of knowing is what drives him forward, he grasps it and  _ pushes  _ with all of his might. _

_ That’s when he finds her. _

 

After Melanie leaves, Martin paces. He isn’t capable of staying still, not now, and he should leave. He really should leave. He should go back upstairs, go back to his office and wait for Peter. Wait for the inevitable disappointment. Wait for someone else to suffer for his failures. 

He can’t be here, he has to…

He takes three steps towards the door and then stops.

The coffin is singing.

He remembers now, that statement, the one about Breeckon and Hope and the man who had the coffin in his flat. Oh god.

Oh  _ Jon. _

It must have started raining outside. Martin strains, trying to hear any hint of Jon in the sounds he can hear. Is he crying out for help? “Jon?” he breathes, moving towards the coffin. “Jon is that…”

The squealing distortion in the air is no less terrifying for being familiar.

“Martin,” Martin thinks it’s absolutely unfair that someone so… so awful can always sound so fucking cheerful. “That really isn’t a good idea.”

Martin draws a shuddering breath and forces himself to look up into Peter’s face. The gentle disappointment there is enough to make his knees weak with fear. “Peter,” he says.

“You haven’t been in the office,” Peter says. “Are you feeling quite all right? I do hope you haven’t been overworking yourself. We need you healthy.”

“I…”

_ “I _ need you healthy,” Martin sees a flash of Peter’s teeth as he talks. His stomach twists. 

“It’s Jon. He’s gone…”

Peter waves an impatient hand. “Into the buried to try to retrieve our Huntress, yes. Absolutely foolish of him, but then I did suspect Basira might have been most of his impulse control.” Peter looks over Martin’s shoulder to the mess on the desk, and lets out a gentle chuckle. “Oh my. Did he really cut off his own finger? Elias must be absolutely delighted.”

“Why?” Martin blurts. “Why would Elias be happy that he… he’s hurt himself? That doesn’t make…”

Peter tuts. “It’s not your concern Martin,” he says.

But it is. He can’t pretend it isn’t, not any more. He promised to keep them safe. He promised he wouldn’t let Jon die, not again, and this isn’t a fulfilment of that promise.

“Can’t you  _ do _ something?” he asks.

“What would you suggest?” Peter asks, as if he actually cares.

“I don’t know, don’t you have…  _ powers, _ can’t you…?”

The laugh Peter lets out is chiding and delighted all at once. “Oh heavens no. I will allow that some aspects of the buried resonate but there really isn’t anything I could effectively do down there that could in any way be helpful.” He takes a step forward and glances into the open coffin. Martin has a sudden, wild urge to push him in, but does not act on it. He doesn’t know what would happen to them all without Peter’s patronage.

He has a horrible feeling he may find out soon.

Peter turns to look back at him, that easy smile back on his face. “So. The Archivist has a plan and I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Or at least he thinks he does. So why don’t you come back to…”

Martin is shaking. “No,” he says. Or tries to say. It comes out as a croak and the litany that is running through his mind is tearing him to pieces.  _ You did this for them. You were going to succeed. This was going to work and Jon was going to be safe. _

But Jon isn’t safe, and Peter isn’t going to help, and all that is important to him, right now, right here, is in that coffin.

Peter tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

He still sounds cheerful. But Martin can feel the tingle of his loneliness start to tighten like a vice in his chest.

“I said no,” Martin says, and stands up a little taller. “If you can’t help me help Jon out of this, then how do I know you can help me with anything else? I said I wanted them safe. Is Basira safe? Is Melanie? All you’ve done is hurt people. Hurt me. And that’s…” he gulps air. “That’s all any of you do, isn’t it, when it gets down to it? You don’t want to protect me or help us, you want us to suffer, you want everyone to suffer so your… your  _ god _ or whatever it is can feed. Well,” he takes a deep breath, ready for whatever Peter is going to throw at him. “It can  _ stop  _ feeding on me.”

He sees Peter twitch an eyebrow. The smile doesn’t lessen, no, but something about it becomes brittle. “Elias underestimated you,” he says, and takes a step forward. Martin resists the urge to close his eyes. He is certain he’s about to be thrown into whatever lonely hellscape Peter has ready for his victims, but isn’t that why he chose this path in the first place? There wasn’t anyone left who cared about him. And then Jon came back and looked at him and spoke to him in that gentle voice  _ What happened, Martin?  _

_ I miss you. _

_ I miss you too, Jon. I’m so sorry. Please come out again. Please… Don’t let Peter win. _

He never had a chance, really, did he?

“Deal’s off,” he says, ashamed of the way his voice shakes. 

“That’s... a shame,” Peter says.


	4. Chapter 4

_Daisy lunges for him, even in the deep and dark and dirt he still finds it in him to want to run. Her teeth are bared and stained with blood and he can’t speak, not with his throat choked with the mud but he can make her_ know _and so he does. All she wants to know is if Basira is alive, he_ knows _that, and it’s easy enough to flood her mind with images of Basira in the institute, waiting, worried, and alone._

_Something changes, then, in Daisy’s countenance and suddenly she is gone. She is gone and Jon doesn’t know why or how._ He _was the one with the anchor, not Daisy. He was the one who came to save her and yet…_

_...and yet._

_An anchor didn’t have to be something physical. Once Daisy knew Basira was waiting she…_

_Oh Jon._

_You absolute fucking idiot._

 

Peter’s smile finally fades and he heaves a gentle, tired sigh. “I’m sorry it couldn’t work out, Martin,” he says, and Martin wills himself to keep his eyes open, he will not face this as the coward he’s always known himself to be and as Peter takes another step…

There is a noise, from the coffin, and a sudden flurry of movement. Dirt sprays outwards and across the room and a snarling, spitting woman flings herself at the closest person. Peter is thrown back against the wall as Daisy - Martin can see now it’s Daisy - leaps at where Peter was standing a few seconds before but… but…

That twisting feeling, the scream of static in Martin’s head washes through the room and Peter is gone. Daisy turns to Martin, lips bared. “Basira,” she croaks out, and Martin can only shrug helplessly, wanting desperately to ask her about Jon but…

“Who was that?” she says then.

He swallows. “Peter Lukas,” he says. She lets out a whuff of a laugh that reminds Martin of something - something wild and dangerous - and the smile that crosses her lips is positively feral.

“Something to chase,” she says.

And she is gone as quickly as she came.

Martin leans against the desk. He doesn’t think his heart will ever get back to a normal rate, but then it hasn’t truly been normal since…

He looks back at the coffin, still open. Daisy came back. Daisy made it, but Jon?

“What did you do?” he asks the coffin, as though Jon can hear him. “How did she get out but not you? Jon?”

 

_Basira. Basira was Daisy’s anchor. Jon would laugh in despair if he had breath or space to do it in. Cut off your finger, Jon. The Call of the FLESH Jon. Much easier than making an actual meaningful human connection JON._

_He doesn’t have any connections like that. Perhaps Georgie might have been one for him, once, but there isn’t anyone… else._

_Anyone else who cares enough for him._

_Anyone else who would make a stupid sacrifice or just… bring him a cup of tea._

_“What did you do?”_

_He shouldn’t be able to hear anything at all, down here, but the soft, exasperated and desperately sad voice reaches him all the same. “How did she get out but not you? Jon?”_

_Martin._

 

He’s given up, but he doesn’t know what to do. He thinks Daisy is hunting Peter. That… could be interesting and is probably a problem that they’re going to have to deal with but Martin supposes that Basira will be able to talk her down, if they even want her to. Peter deserves to die, just as much as Elias, and Martin can’t bring himself to really care.

About anything.

He sits down in Jon’s chair and resumes his watch. He’s not sure how long he’s been here altogether, to be honest. Long enough for Peter to realise his absence, so probably longer than a day. He’s tired, and hungry, and thirsty, but the weariness is what wins out in the end and he finally slips into sleep.

 

It should have been more dramatic, Jon thinks as he pulls himself over the side of the coffin and collapses on the floor of his office, gasping for breath. But in the end it was just bloody tiring. He was sure Daisy had burst forth like some sort of avenging angel ready to kill anyone who’d ever hurt Basira but Jon just…

Well he’s here. And he’s bloody exhausted.

At least he is until he sees the figure slumped in the chair behind his desk.

Then he is very, very awake.

Martin’s mouth is slightly open and there’s a little drool running out the corner of it, but his long lashes are resting peacefully on cheekbones that are more gaunt than Jon remembers and the soft rise and fall of his chest is enough for Jon to see he’s sleeping.

In Jon’s office.

Directly in front of Jon’s severed finger which, okay, yuck. He flexes his left hand, not surprised to feel almost no pain there, then sucks at his teeth. Martin looks very tired and Jon is covered in dirt and muck but he knows something now. Something about himself that he didn’t know before he went down into the coffin and he’s not sure if the thing he knows is good or bad for anyone.

It’s probably bad.

Most things are bad, these days.

Martin murmurs something and shifts in his sleep and Jon feels something clench in his chest and his eyes are suddenly full. If he wakes Martin up, Martin will almost certainly just… disappear again. Mutter something about having to go and it’s complicated and _you died_ Jon and leave him here, alone, with nothing but a fucking severed finger and a lot of dirt and Jon doesn’t know if he can deal with that, not again. So he just stands there and looks at Martin like an idiot who never knew what he had until he couldn’t keep it.

He stands there, thinking that however absolutely awful this moment is, with the full weight of his realisations, it’s likely the only moment they’ll get.

Martin’s eyelids flutter and Jon holds his breath as they open and Martin sits up, wiping his mouth.

“Jon?” he sounds uncertain.

“Martin.”

“You… you made it out.”

“Yes.”

There is a long moment of silence and he sees Martin’s eyes trail down to his left hand. “Did you really cut off…”

Jon sighs. “Yes. Please I’d rather not… talk about it.”

“That was…”

“Really stupid of me. I know. But thanks for reminding me.” Another moment. “Daisy?”

“Oh ah…. She came out about an hour or so ago? Um. She may…” Martin runs a hand through his hair. “I think she might be trying to hunt down Peter Lukas.”

“What?”

“Um. Peter was here, uh… he wasn’t happy that I was…” Martin shakes his head and stands up, coming around to the front of the desk. “That doesn’t matter. He was here when Daisy came out and she uh…”

“Chased him.”

“Yeah.”

Another moment.

“Well. That’s. Interesting.”

Another. Martin is looking at him as though he’s afraid Jon is the one who will disappear. He hasn’t run yet.

He hasn’t run.

“Jon you’re covered in dirt.”

“Am I?” Jon looks down at himself and lets out a sigh. He has gone through so many sets of clothes these past years. He feebly dusts at himself for a second then looks back up at Martin, who is hovering near him, an expression so familiar and dear that he feels his breath hitch. “Why…” his voice cracks and he swallows. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” Martin whispers. “I came down. I shouldn’t have but I did and then I knocked on your door and you didn’t answer and that was good, really, it was good that you didn’t answer and I shouldn’t have come inside but when I did and I saw that thing and I realised what you did and I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave you in there I couldn’t…”

Jon reaches out his less recently injured hand and gently takes Martin’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think anyone would come by, except maybe Basira. You haven’t exactly been visiting much lately.” Jon can see the heat of a blush under Martin’s skin and realises he’s been an idiot again. “I’m sorry, Martin I don’t mean… I don’t mean that you. Christ. Look. I know you probably have to go. I can clean up here don’t… don’t worry about…” he moves towards the table and his legs give out and Martin throws an arm across his chest and stops him from collapsing outright but they both end up kneeling on the floor in the dirt.

Martin’s face is very close and Jon does not pull back. “Sorry,” he says.

“I can’t believe you cut off your finger,” Martin says, then swallows.

“Didn’t even need to, as it turns out,” Jon says.

“Mmm?”

Jon reaches up, so carefully, and his hand hovers near Martin’s lips. “Jon? What are you…”

He’s so bad at this. He isn’t sure if he should ask first but he’s also sure that if he tries whatever comes out of his mouth will be absolutely ridiculous so he settles for moving forward a little, inching his face towards Martin’s.

Martin pulls back, and Jon, mortified, pushes away and gets to his feet. He sways a little, once he’s there, and Martin scrambles up beside him, supporting him at the elbow. “I’m sorry,” Jon says. “Stupid of me, Martin, I know you can’t… I’m… Just….” _Lonely. Without you._

He tries to get to his desk, but Martin is there beside him, holding him back. “Jon did you just…”

“Make an absolute arse of myself? Yes, absolutely I did. It’s a thing. Apparently.”

“Jon, no. Jon wait I…”

Jon looks up at Martin and Martin is… smiling. He cannot remember the last time he saw Martin smile. God, he’s missed it.

“Something you wanted to say, Martin?” he says.

“You _are_ covered in dirt,” Martin points out.

“Well I didn’t exactly think I was going to get another opportunity to… uh… you know since you’re likely to just be… gone in a minute so I thought…”

“Opportunity to what?” The smile is positively mischievous now.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Well. You don’t actually have to say it when you could just…”

Jon lets out an exasperated breath then reaches up to pull Martin down for a kiss.

It’s been a long time and he really is very bad. Their teeth clack and his nose gets squished into Martin’s cheek and when they pull apart there is more saliva than there really should be but Martin is still smiling, one hand moving up to brush a thumb over the scars on Jon’s cheek and when he dips his head to kiss Jon again this time at least one of them knows what to do.

When they part again they’re both breathing hard.

“I suppose you have to go now,” Jon says, but Martin leans his head forward to rest on Jon’s and gently shakes it, no.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think this time I get to stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't going to be a multi-chapter but then Cuttooth said they wanted more and I knew I really did want to write more so I did and that was today gone, I guess? It's good to be writing in a fandom again. Thanks all.


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